


Leave The City

by Daniela_is_not_amused



Series: The Carbonell Family (a mob au) [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate universe - Mafia, Aunt Peggy Carter, Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Maria Stark, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Peggy Carter, Dead Howard Stark, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I Blame Tumblr, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Italian Maria Stark, Italian Tony Stark, Mafia Boss Maria Stark, Maria Stark Lives, Maria Stark is a good mom, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Not Beta Read, Peggy Carter is Tony Stark's Godparent, Peggy adopted Natasha, Plotbunnies, Young Tony Stark, it's a mob au, kinda dark Maria Stark, kinda dark Peggy Carter, what did you expect?, young natasha romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daniela_is_not_amused/pseuds/Daniela_is_not_amused
Summary: Justin Hammer decided to start a war against the Carbonells.Peggy will do anything to keep Natasha safe, even if it angers her.





	Leave The City

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. This is all for fun. 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated.

**Before**

 

When Natasha wakes up, everything seems kind of fuzzy and out of focus. The brights are brighter— really bright, and her brain feels like it's pounding in her skull. She tries to get up but something holds her back. She she looks down, expecting to see ropes or chains, shoelaces, anything and it’s surprised to find it's just a seatbelt. She wrenches the buckle, click breaking herself free, and scrambles in her seat to see the road pass by.

 

“Should keep yourself buckled up, doll."

 

She starts at the sound of a voice, deep and teasing. It's one she's heard before, and it's calming for a moment, like when Tony plays for her or Miss Carter brushes her hair.

 

"Bucky? You. How the fuck did I end up in this car?" She shouldn't ask, really. She knows what happened. She had been so angry with Miss Carter. 

 

‘Never go to bed angry’, Ms. Carbonell kept telling them. ‘Family should stay together and you are like mother and daughter.’ 

 

And she'd even brought her the tea in bed, stroking her hair. 'I'm sorry, ‘Tasha. I just want to keep you safe.' 

 

It had been sweet. 

 

So she'd thought. She was so stupid.

 

"Miss Carter said I had to keep you—"

 

"’Miss Carter said’? My mother actually told you to drug and kidnap me? Strap me into this fucking car against my will?"

 

"Wasn't the one who drugged you - that was Peggy's genius idea - and would you have gone otherwise? Kid, I haven't seen you much since you were ten, but I'm guessing it’s not fucking likely."

 

At that, Natasha snarls indignantly, feels her anger boiling and bubbling, hot in her stomach. "Turn around. Take me home. I have to help my mother…and then kill her for kidnapping me."

 

"No."

 

She starts to thrash and kick at Bucky's seat, screaming at him to take her back to the Carbonell house, actually reaching for the wheel as if to turn around the car but Bucky is faster. He swears, loud and clear for all to hear, wrenching the wheel to the right and slamming on the breaks, the engine sputtering to a stop. He turns to look at her, blue ice that cuts so deep it floors her and she feels her blood freeze inside her veins.

 

There’s a moment of silence, as they stare at each other, daring the other to do something and it doesn’t take long for the fire to take hold of Natasha’s mind once more. She raises her fist as if she means to slap him and Bucky grabs her wrist, then the other, never missing a beat, not even as she struggles and curses and fights.

 

"This stops now," he says and squeezes her wrist so hard it hurts but she just clenches her teeth and pushes back. "Stupid girl. Hammer decided to take on the Carbonell family and Hydra is after our ass again. Antonio left days ago, claiming to have the answers to all our problems and no one has seen him since. Ms. Carbonell and Peggy are trying to keep the damaged to a minimum and I've been given one job - just one - and that's keeping you safe."

 

"I should be with my family, they need me, I can't…"

 

"Your family needs you to be alive. You think they wouldn't use you to get to them? You think they aren't looking for your scrawny ass right now?"

 

Bucky's hands are clenched so tight around her wrists his fingertips are white. When Natasha looks down at her own hands, the skin there is red and inflamed, but she can't seem to feel it.

 

* * *

 

For a moment, Bucky thinks she could be asleep again. She's quiet as he pulls forward onto the highway, with her head resting against the windowsill.

 

"Listen, Doll -"

 

"Don't call me that," she snaps. "You know nothing about me."

 

"Maybe not. But Peggy has been good to me, and I owe her one."

 

"I can take care of myself," she says. As she mutters this, her fingers trail reverently over the pearled handle of Peggy's knife, still stuffed, like a secret, into the lining of her jacket.

 

"Don't doubt it. But you're still stuck with me."

 

Bucky is certain that this is not going to end well. He isn't sure why Peggy even thought this might work, but at this point, he has no choice in the matter. Besides, it’s of his best interest that the Carbonell's manage to defeat Hydra before they can get to him.

 

The next few days are tense at best. Bucky is stiff and agitated as he drives, trying to put as many miles between them and Hydra as they can, refusing to stop unless Natasha is really desperate, her bladder practically near bursting on more than one occasion. And he all but forgoes getting sleep - when he does, catching a nap curled into the steering wheel, he dreams of metal chairs and freezing underground chambers. 

 

Natasha is just as wary of him as he is of her. He doesn't let her out of his sight, shoots daggers if anyone so much as coughs in her direction, and he drinks so much shitty, gas station coffee that his hands shake constantly, fingers tap-tap-tapping against the gearshift. 

 

Natasha is restless and, by the end of the third night, they're both ready to slit each other's throats and be done with it.

 

* * *

 

 

They eat burgers and fries out of paper bags stained with grease while sprawled on the hood of Bucky's car. They're sixty miles outside of Manhattan, and the sun's just setting down, turning everything into muted pinks and yellows

Natasha doesn't eat much, can't bring herself to feel hungry. Not in this heat. She used to like her long hair - really the only thing she kept the same since escaping the red room - but now it’s damp with sweat, hanging in her face, and she wishes she could chop it off right here. So when Bucky says the words “motel, sleep, shower” it's like a dream. A beautiful dream.

 

" We'll grab a room, get some real sleep, figure out where the fuck we're going next…"

 

Natasha blinks. "You don't know?"

 

Bucky shrugs. "Peggy wasn't too clear on that part."

 

Natasha thinks on that for a moment, struck suddenly with the strange realization that she is freer under the guise of a hostage than as little Natasha Romanoff Carbonell. It was strangely thrilling. And wholly confusing. 

 

"We could go anywhere then? Anywhere I wanted?"

 

"Against my better judgment, I'm going to supply you with a tentative yes…"

 

"What about Malibu?"

 

"And what, pray tell, is in Malibu?"

 

Natasha smiles genuinely for the first time in what feels like weeks: "Antonio."

 

* * *

 

 

The prospect of a room with a real bed, a shower, even a toilet that isn't shoved in a stall is almost too much for Natasha to even process right now. There's a layer of grime on her skin and she can't wait to scrub it off, shed it like snakeskin. Mostly what she wants is to remember what it feels like - to be cool and clean and shiny and new again. She’s just so tired. She has never felt this exhausted before, not even during her time in the red room.

 

* * *

 

Once they get off the freeway, Bucky pulls into the first motel they see - 24 hours, free wifi, the whole shebang. It looks like shit, but after being on the road for so many hours that it feels like the fucking Taj Mahal. He throws their two duffels over his shoulder, and he knows that Natasha's definitely just a step or two behind him because when the door to thrown  open, the air conditioning blasts them both in the face; he hears her gasping into his ear.

 

"Thank fuck," she breathes.

 

"No kidding."

 

An old lady eyes them from the counter, where she had been reading a gossip magazine. "You kids need room?"

 

Bucky asks for a double room, but the woman doesn't seem to hear him. Or maybe she just doesn't care. Natasha thinks it's probably the latter because when Bucky tries to tell her, she shoves the keys across the counter, scowling around a mouth full of teeth and a gap the size of the Grand Canyon stretched between two pointed incisors.

 

"One bed left. You take, or you sleep in street."

 

Outside there is just crackling neon and the no vacancy sign flickers.

 

On, off, on, off, all night until dawn.

 

The room is too small, a little dingy, dimly lit, with a carpet of the 70's shag variety, sickly green, stained, and balding in patches around the bed. "I'll sleep on the floor," says Bucky, with finality. 

 

"I'll shower first," she answers and leaves before he can answer.

 

The bathroom is cramped, with yellowing tiles that were probably white once, and peeling wallpaper with curling ends, spotted with mildew. But regardless of all of that, it has a decent sized shower, so as soon as Natasha sheds her clothes, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor, she quickly forgets about all of the room's imperfections. 

 

By the time she finishes washing - she shampoos her hair three times before she feels clean -, the water's practically run cold but she doesn't care that Bucky will be pissed. And when she steps out onto the bath mat, shrouded in steam, she pauses, she just stands still because she still can't seem to fathom that she's there, in an actual motel room with a bed and a bathroom, now that they've stopped moving for a moment and she can just take it all in.

 

The towel on the rack is a little too small, more than threadbare, but she wraps it around her shoulders anyway, shivering as the water starts to evaporate off her skin, leaving gooseflesh behind. The mirror is fogged up, but she can still see herself clear enough. Her bright red hair hangs loosely, knots forming everywhere, and Natasha can’t stop herself from wishing Miss Carter was there to help her with it. 

 

Normally Natasha keeps it subdued in a tight bun or braid, something that always drove Ms. Carbonell mad (“It pains me to see such a pretty hair wasted like that”) and now it's more bothersome than ever, drenched and dripping cold droplets onto her toes. The knife is still in her jacket pocket, and her hand's clenched around handle before she even realizes she's done it.

 

All it takes is a steady hand, a quick sawing motion, and the first clump of tresses falls into the sink. Maybe it's stupid, she thinks, as she hacks off more and more of the offending curls but the act of cutting it feels sort of therapeutic, a little like being reborn, maybe like she's finally letting go of some of the weight that's been crushing her since her birth parents sold her to the red room in exchange of drugs.

 

Either way, by the time she's finished, Natasha doesn't recognize the face in the mirror looking back at her, and frankly, she's perfectly fine with that.

 

Bucky's still not able to relax, even after he's stashed their bags and spread a blanket and pillow out onto the floor for himself. So while the girl is in the bath, he sharpens his knives and goes over possible routes for tomorrow.

 

"Your turn."

 

Her voice is sharp and sudden, and he has to force himself not to jump, fingers curling tightly around his favourite pocket knife.

 

"Fuck, make a little more noise when you walk, doll," he hisses, his lips curled into a scowl.

 

"Don't be such a whiner," she says airily, and before he can protest, she's standing in front of him, eyeing him as if he’s an idiot.

 

Bucky huffs, "Are you always this pleasant?" He couples the words with a harsh stare, feeling inexplicably pleased that she breaks first, her grey eyes darting away from his face.

 

"Only when I'm kept hostage against my will," she says.

 

"Whatever," he answers before walking towards the bedroom’s door. He pushes an old wooden chair against the door handle, locking all three bolts with a satisfying click. Though, when he looks up, Natasha is standing right next to him once more smirking at him. Her hair is down, but it's much shorter now, with a fringe hanging over her eyes and the edges blunt and uneven, like she'd hacked them off with…

 

With a knife, he realizes sourly.

 

All of a sudden, he's assaulted with a slew of various images of all the ways Natasha could stick him with the point of some needle-knife like he's a suckling pig. To say the least, none of them are on a list of things that sound fun to him.

 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she spits, but he doesn't answer her, pulling her close by the front of her shirt, thrusting his hands into her jean’s pocket, ignoring the squirming and cursing in his arms.

 

"Hey, asshole!" she screeches, and he winces, though he's back and away from her in a no more than a second. "What the fuck!"

 

He shrugs, grasping the thin blade between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out in front of him like the object's offending him in some way.

 

"Not really looking to get stabbed in my sleep, doll," he says, examining the tiny knife with an appraising gaze. It's skinny, light, but it's well-crafted, and expensive, he notes, examining the the shiny silver inlay etched onto the mother-of-pearl handle. He remembers Antonio having it handcrafted for her on her first birthday with the Carbonell family.

 

"I wasn't going to do anything with it, so give it back," she grits, her fists balled at her sides. He wants to laugh, because with the way her face is reddening, she looks like she’s about to throw a temper tantrum. "It's mine," she adds, slow and furious but there’s also a pang of fear in her eyes and something tells him that being caught with weapons in the red room wouldn’t have been a fun experience.

 

"Mine for the night," he singsongs, slipping into the bathroom, faster than a blink, locking the door behind him. He's got something almost resembling a smile on his face, as steps into a cold shower, because he realizes can have a few minutes of peace, knowing the girl isn’t going to run anywhere, not without her brother's knife.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha is fuming, stomping around the room, tossing clothes out of her bag and knocking things haphazardly off the dresser just because she's angry and needs something to do. She has always had a hot temper, despite the Red Room’s best efforts to break her, and Barnes was yanking on every last thread of her patience, unraveling it like it's an old sweater. 

 

Plus, he'd taken her knife, and she hadn't even seen it coming. That was the most irritating thing, she thinks, that he'd been able to one-up her like that. He was faster than her, something that didn't happen often, not to her, and that bothered her more than she wished it did.

 

"Bastard," she mutters under her breath, plopping down on the bed with her arms crossed and her knees pulled up underneath her.

 

And maybe pouting is more exhausting than she thinks, because she doesn't even remember falling asleep. It just hits her, as sudden and unexpected as a blow to the head.

 

* * *

 

 

When the bathroom door creaks open, Natasha stirs, though she doesn't open her eyes right away. When she does, the room is only dimly lit, the curtains having been drawn while she was asleep, she guesses.

 

She just barely makes out Barnes' outline in the dark, but he steps closer. She doesn't know what he's doing as he approaches the bed, his hand shoved into his pocket. When he pulls it out, he's got the knife, and her heart hammer in her chest.

 

Needless to say, she feels stupid, and a little perplexed, when he places it delicately, like it's something precious (which it is, to her), on the nightstand next to her head.

 

She tries to close her eyes, feign sleep, but he looks down, and she's once again not fast enough. Their eyes meet again, and Natasha feels like she’s a little girl once again.

 

She hates it.

 

"Go back to sleep," he says, but the words aren't said venomously, and it's not a command or a thinly-veiled threat, for once.

 

She turns towards the wall, instead of saying anything, and curls around one of the pillows, burying her face in the soft cotton. She hears rustling, the sounds of Barnes trying to get himself comfortable, something that she thinks must be difficult on this awful floor.

 

A few moments, he stops moving and then there's only silence in the room. Just the sounds of shallow breathing.

 

After about five minutes of silence, she guesses he's sleeping, and she's just about to let herself drift off when she hears him, his voice barely a whisper.

 

"I'm sorry… If I scared you."

 

Natasha doesn't roll over to look at him, but she stiffens underneath the pile of blankets she doesn't remember covering herself with.

 

"You didn't," she mumbles.

 

Neither of them wakes until early the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


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